


To Take Comfort

by Haicrescendo



Series: What We’re Given [8]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Unintentional Self Harm, descriptions of trauma, feelings? in MY fanfic?, in which zuko hurts everyone’s feelings just by being himself, rip to the western air temple but I’m different, soft death by sky bison, tags are hard today okay?, the comfort that comes after the hurt, this is soft garbage, zuko’s crew is ride or die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haicrescendo/pseuds/Haicrescendo
Summary: [Zuko is rocking.That’s the first sensation he feels upon awakening. It’s a familiar feeling, as is the texture of the knit blanket he’s curled up in, as is the quiet but constant hum of machinery, deep in the belly of the Jasmine Dragon....wait.Zuko bolts upright and flails, once, and falls out of bed with a hard clatter. It’s his bed that he’s been sleeping in for years, and definitely not the cell that he’s been rotting in for the last...he doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t know how he got here. He doesn’t remember.]Or,Zuko is not okay. But he can get better.
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko & Zuko's Crew (Avatar)
Series: What We’re Given [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537510
Comments: 243
Kudos: 3107
Collections: Mixed_Fics





	To Take Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey hey! Thank you so much for sticking around with me. If you enjoyed this, please leave a comment and let me know! I read and appreciate every single one and feeding the author helps shake more stories out of the vending machine.
> 
> If you’d rather screech at me on tumblr, my ask is always open @sword-and-stars.

* * *

  
The Day Of Black Sun is a _shitshow._

Sokka had known that their chances of success weren’t great from the start, but there had still been some hope, treacherous hope, that things would pull through and work themselves out. Things had _not_ pulled through and they certainly hadn’t worked themselves out.

Most everything, in fact, had gone completely wrong.

Dad and the others got captured and taken who even knows where after all the subs were destroyed.

Azula had kept all of them distracted to the point that she’d gotten back her bending.

Suki’s _alive_ but imprisoned somewhere. Maybe alive? The princess is scary good at lying.

And they never even saw the Fire Lord. Not once, not even a hair. The palace had been prepared for an attack, and whether that was because of an information leak or because of the eclipse itself remains to be seen.

_A country of people whose bending is fueled by the sun, and you think they wouldn’t keep track of star charts?_ A treacherous voice that sounds suspiciously like Li—Zuko chides Sokka in the back of his head. _Come on, Sokka. Use your brain._

This is on him, and Sokka knows it. 

His skin crawls, but he doesn’t have the luxury of a breakdown. Sokka has to get his friends to safety and then—and only then, will he allow himself to crumble the way he knows he’s going to.

“Where are we going?” Katara asks over the wind in their ears. Appa’s flying as fast as he can. Toph looks like she’s trying really hard not to vomit right over the edge of his saddle. Sokka can sympathize, and he’s not even blind.

“We should head to the Western Air Temple,” Aang says. “It’s not too far—“

“No,” Sokka interrupts, “I have a better idea.”

Appa’s sides are heaving and there are steaks of sweat showing underneath the saddle. He needs a break and they all need a safe space to land for a minute. He points downward to a speck in the water that, despite the distance, is speeding away from the coast of the Fire Nation.

Sokka doesn’t know for sure, but he’ll put good odds on knowing which ship that is.

It’s a good call.

It’s clear very quickly that Sokka is _right_ (he’ll save his bragging for later, after they’ve slept and maybe cried a little), and the ship he picked out among the dark waves is The Jasmine Dragon. Appa crashes onto the deck and immediately drops in a heap, splaying his six legs out.

Sokka throws his hands up amidst the shouts of “Hold your fire!” that echo across the deck.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Haru mumbles to him with trepidation, arms draped over Teo and The Duke.

They didn’t really part with Iroh on super great terms. They weren’t _bad_ terms but they weren’t great either, a hard rift between them named _Zuko_ keeping them apart like a deep ravine. Sokka hates that they’d left him behind, hates that they hadn’t really had a choice but hates that it had happened anyway. 

“How’d you know that they’d be around here?” Aang asks from his left.

Sokka nods in the direction of a cluster of people in full Fire Nation armor on the other side of the ship. It would be impossible not to notice the arrival of a giant bison, but they don’t so much as twitch, focused intently on one thing and one thing only.

“Is that—?”

“Uncle, yeah,” Sokka mumbles back to his sister, “I saw them breaking into the palace at the same time we were. We just got lucky that they weren’t already too far away.”

Iroh is a stout, gentle looking man but dressed to the teeth in armor makes him look absolutely _terrifying._ Even knowing that it’s just Uncle in that armor doesn’t completely erase the knee-jerk jolt of fear that rocks through Sokka’s body completely on instinct—even when he sees why no one is paying much attention to them.

Uncle’s cradling Li— _Zuko_ in his arms.

Sokka can’t see well but he can see that the other boy is at least conscious, if not coherent, because he’s fighting _hard_ in Iroh’s grip, and Sokka sees a soaked cloth get pressed to Zuko’s nose right before he goes limp and still. 

* * *

Zuko is rocking.

That’s the first sensation he feels upon awakening. It’s a familiar feeling, as is the texture of the knit blanket he’s curled up in, as is the quiet but constant hum of machinery, deep in the belly of the Jasmine Dragon.

...wait.

Zuko bolts upright and flails, once, and falls out of bed with a hard clatter. It’s _his_ bed that he’s been sleeping in for years, and definitely not the cell that he’s been rotting in for the last...he doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t know how he got here. He doesn’t _remember._

Zuko remembers all of it and none of it, and he can’t figure out what’s real and what he made up. He remembers Ba Sing Se and the sewers, and fighting Azula. He remembers back talking to Father. He remembers his cell. And that’s where things get fuzzy, because he doesn’t remember exactly how he got hurt or how he got here, just a fog of floating and phantom pain and constant terror. The lights, dim as they are, hurt his eyes a little.

Zuko squeezes them shut.

His head hurts.

Zuko’s entire body hurts, really, and a quick examination reveals bandages wrapped expertly over his injuries.

The door opens.

“Sir!”

Zuko looks up and there’s Teruko standing in the doorway, looking stricken. Why isn’t she on the island where she’s supposed to be? His brain feels like it’s full of water and he groans a little and rubs his temples from the floor. 

Teruko approaches and kneels down, gripping him by the upper arms, and helps manhandle him back into bed.

Is this real? Zuko can’t tell and it’s terrifying to not know if this is really happening or something sweet and vivid that his mind has made up to keep from snapping entirely.

“ _Oh, no,”_ Teruko breathes, and wipes frantically at his cheeks with calloused hands. “Please don’t cry, sir, you know I can’t handle that shit. Come on, it’s okay. You’re fine, you’re gonna be alright, it’s okay.”

Zuko doesn’t even realize that he was crying at all until her hands come off of him wet. Someone’s making an awful, gasping sobbing noise and it takes a second to realize that it’s him. Teruko makes a strange, soft sound that he hasn’t heard her make since he was a thirteen-year-old wreck and wraps the blanket back up around him.

“I’m going to send for the general,” she says, “Stay in bed.”

Zuko stays in bed and tries to stop shaking.

Teruko comes back after a minute and sits on the edge of his bed, hesitates for a moment, and then gives his cheek an awkward pat.

“Is this real?” Zuko whispers. He’s a little afraid to know the answer but he has to ask. “Are _you_ real?”

Teruko makes that sound again.

“As real as I can hope to be,” she says, finally, “And so are you.”

“Oh,” Zuko mumbles, wiping at his eyes, “Okay. That’s good.” He doesn’t know if it’s actually good, but he’s so _tired_ and bed feels so good that he can’t make himself care. He’s in residual pain rather than active pain and that’s an improvement, whether it’s a hallucination or not. 

If it’s something that his brain made up, it’s very nice, and probably better than he deserves for going and dying on Uncle like that.

“Can I go to sleep?” Zuko closes his eyes and feels a warm hand brush his bangs away from his forehead and stay. That single, gentle touch helps hold him to the ground. “I’m _really_ tired.”

“Yeah, kid. Go to sleep.”

So Zuko does.

* * *

The Dragon Of The West is trying to teach Aang to meditate like a firebender when one of the _really scary_ crew members comes racing out from below deck like something’s after her. She doesn’t quite run but there’s definitely an urgency and a mission in her movements.

“General Iroh, Prince Zuko is awake!” 

Iroh drops everything he’s doing. Literally. The tea cup he was lifting to his lips drops and shatters on the deck.

“We will continue this later,” he says, kind but now completely distracted, and is gone way faster than a dude that age should be able to move. _Well, maybe that’s not quite fair,_ Sokka amends in his head. Bumi’s way older than Uncle, and he’s still spry as hell.

To Aang’s credit, he keeps trying for a moment or two longer before he gives up and wanders his way back over to where Sokka and Katara are sitting together on the deck. Katara’s got a ball of seawater she’s rolling over in her hands.

“Do you...do you think that L—Zuko’s okay?” Aang asks quietly. “We’ve been here for nearly two days.”

Sokka shrugs and stares out at the horizon.

“Not sure how okay someone can really be after coming out of something like that,” he replies. Better to be realistic about it, even though Aang’s face drops. Sokka feels like an asshole. “But he’s alive!” He continues quickly, “And now he’s awake. That’s something, right?” 

Aang’s face brightens. “I’m gonna go tell Toph!”

“You go do that, buddy.”

“You could have done better than that,” Katara mutters the instant that Aang’s out of earshot.

“I didn’t hear you saying anything.”

Katara huffs at him but goes quiet, keeps rolling the ball of seawater like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“Are _you_ okay?” Sokka bumps her shoulder with his and she loses focus, drenching her lap with water.

“I’m worried.”

“About?”

“Everything.”

Everything is a whole lot for his little sister to be worrying about, but Sokka gets it. There’s a lot to worry about—the failed invasion, Dad’s capture, the plan going forward, Aang’s fear of firebending that hasn’t been remedied even a little bit by the garbage fire that was the day of the eclipse. Aang is good at bending in a way that even Sokka, mundane in the elements as he is, knows is prodigal. He knows it in the way he’d seen Katara struggle to contain her bouts of sometimes-jealousy, way back when. He knows it in the way that, even when Aang hits a roadblock, he always finds a way to overcome it.

But Aang is struggling with fire in a way that Sokka hasn’t really seen from him.

The few lessons he got from Jeong Jeong feel like forever ago, but Sokka knows that every time Aang thinks about fire, all he can see is hurting the people that he cares for.

If any firebender could have reassured Aang, it should have been Uncle. The old dragon is an absolute tank of a man but gentle and patient and all the things that should have made Aang feel better, but two days and the Avatar hasn’t so much as thrown a single spark.

Katara worries.

Sokka worries and keeps them to himself.

* * *

The next time he wakes, he’s not alone.

Zuko’s aware of this fact before he even opens his eyes, because there’s the sensation of fingers wrapped solidly around his, and voices that aren't cold and sharp. No one in the dungeons could hold his hand, even if they wanted to. That, and only that, is what gives him the strength to open his eyes.

Zuko’s not alone because Uncle is there.

Uncle is there and has clearly been crying and that’s something that Zuko can’t handle.

“Hi, Uncle.”

His voice cracks and he has the feeling that _he’s_ crying again. Why can’t he tell? Shouldn’t he be able to _tell_ by now?

Uncle’s expression breaks, just a little. Zuko’s vision blurs.

“Are—are you here with us now, Prince Zuko?” 

Any confusion Zuko may have been fostering about whether or not he was hallucinating withers and dies at the look of horror-tinged relief on Iroh’s face. He could never in a thousand years have made up such a look in his head. Zuko’s heart hurts.

“I’m here,” he whispers, finally, clutches hard at the fingers wrapped around his own. The realness of it sinks into him and makes itself a home, and Zuko desperately blinks salt water out of his eyes. “I love you, Uncle. I missed you. Thank you for coming for me.”

And then he’s being grabbed tightly in a warm, familiar hold, and Zuko presses his nose hard into Uncle’s shoulder, letting himself hold as tightly in return as he needs to, until he doesn’t feel like he’s falling anymore. Uncle doesn’t hesitate to sit on the edge of the bed and pull Zuko into his lap like he’s tiny, even though he’s not.

“Oh, my nephew, I love you too,” is whispered into Zuko’s hair. “It’s _so good_ to see you.”

Zuko doesn’t know how long it is before he’s able to peel himself out of Uncle Iroh’s grip. Long enough, at least, that he stops shaking. He wraps himself right back up into his blankets anyway.

“I need you to tell me what happened on the day of the eclipse,” Zuko says, because he can guess but doesn’t know. Guessing isn’t enough.

Uncle hesitates.

“Please.”

“Not without getting some food into you first,” Uncle finally says, eyeballing the area around Zuko’s ribs. The idea of good, actual food has Zuko ravenous and also extremely nauseated. He knows that it’s different here. He’s _home_ (the only home he has, the only home he _wants_ ) and even if he can’t eat, nobody would dare even try and hold him down, even if they wanted to, but his body remembers and his body is _afraid_. “If Bon asks, what would you like?”

“Scrambled eggs with chili-chives,” Zuko decides after some deliberation. He doesn’t know that his body will deal very well with meat right now and isn’t willing to risk it. Real, unspoiled food sounds so good and eggs...well. Eggs weren’t something they ever brought down to him, so they couldn’t be ruined.

Uncle leaves briefly for the kitchens and Zuko lays on his back in bed and stares up at the ceiling.

He _hurts._

Zuko’s not sure how long it was between waking up the first time and now, but not long enough to do any kind of significant healing. He tries to be objective as he assesses his body—like he would somebody else instead of himself. Weak, _very_ weak. Getting out of bed would be a very bad idea right now. He’s afraid to peel up the bandages and see what’s underneath. 

Zuko’s afraid to see the handprints pressed into his skin.

Uncle comes back in before Zuko has to wrestle his brain back into one piece, carrying a covered bowl on a tray. Little wisps of steam waft out from the top. Zuko was hungry, and then he wasn’t, and then his appetite roars back into him with the yank of a riptide.

When he uncovers it, he can see that underneath the scrambled egg is a pile of soft rice that he didn’t think to ask for and definitely isn’t complaining about. What he also didn’t ask for and isn’t complaining about is the warm, baked bun on a dish that, upon taking a bite, is filled with sweet taro custard.

It’s about the best thing that Zuko’s ever eaten, and he doesn’t realize that he’s crying a little, _again_ , until he hears the hurt little sound of Uncle’s concern come out of him. He puts his food down long enough to scrub hard at his face.

“Sorry, this just _keeps happening,”_ Zuko grumbles with feeling. That grumble is interrupted by a sniffling little hiccup of a sob, and he wipes at his eyes again.

“Don’t be sorry.”

Uncle’s words are spoken gently but so firmly that Zuko’s heart quakes hard in his chest. He feels like he’s being held to the earth by a string, and that one small snip will be enough to send him floating away. It’s not quite a bad feeling—Zuko has enough experience in escape to find a certain safety in it, but he’d rather be _here_. Even if Uncle’s pain written all over his face is hard to swallow.

“I’ll get it together, Uncle. I will. I promise.”

Zuko means to sound as reassuring as he can. He means to, he really does, but even he can tell that the words just come out sounding pleading and a little pathetic instead. Who’s he trying to convince? It sure as hell doesn’t convince Uncle, because the moment he’s done eating, Zuko’s being very gently pushed backwards against the pillows again.

He can’t finish the eggs or the rice, even though they’re the best things he can remember eating.

“You need to rest,” Uncle insists.

“You said—“ Zuko struggles a little to sit back up, “You said you’d tell me what happened if I ate. You have to—I have to—“

The pressure of Uncle’s hand on his chest increases by a hair, but it’s enough that Zuko freezes. He freezes, stiff and still, and then goes slack, lets himself slip backwards. Blood pounds in his ears and he shuts his eyes tight, but Zuko’s not fast enough to miss the look of horror that flashes over Uncle’s face before he can wipe it away. His lips press into a thin line.

“Zuko…” Uncle says, very quiet. He looks _mortified_.

Zuko wants to roll over and die.

“Don’t…” Zuko finally manages after several dry swallows, “Don’t push on me, please.” It means something different now and he can’t bring himself to explain it. He can’t do it. All he can do in elaboration is a single pushing gesture with his hand, just once.

Zuko drinks from the offered cup that Uncle hands him until his voice is less of a croak and more normal. “Tell me what happened.”

Uncle looks like he’s been dreading this part but nevertheless settles himself back down on the edge of Zuko’s bed, absently tucks the edge of the knit blanket snugly underneath Zuko’s hip. Zuko doesn’t want to be babied but allows it anyway.

It feels good, and it seems like Uncle needs it.

He takes in a breath, steadies himself, and begins to speak.

* * *

Zuko’s body is a wreck.

It works and does all the things it needs to do, which is the important part, but— _spirits_.

Zuko doesn’t really think about asking about his own bandaged injuries until he’s convinced Uncle to leave him long enough alone to take another nap, and when he wakes up? He’s curious. He can’t help the morbid sort of interest mixed with abstract horror.

What’s under his bandages?

Nothing’s broken or damaged badly enough to hinder movement, but his whole body aches like one big bruise and every movement he makes is like a finger poking at it. The more he thinks about it, the more Zuko starts to wonder if Uncle Iroh avoided the topic on purpose.

Zuko wouldn’t entirely be surprised.

So he waits until he’s sure that no one’s going to see him and manages to drag himself into the showers, wiping the excess condensation off of the mirror to take a look at himself. Objectively.

Scar? Check. As usual. 

He looks like he needs to sleep for a week.

Face a little thinner, hair lank around his face and in desperate need of a wash. Depending on how tired he is after this, a shower might be in the cards. Zuko’s too clean for someone not to have at least given him a wipe down (and isn’t that a mortifying thought to save for later when he can deal with it properly?) but he’s nowhere near fresh. A cursory sniff around his underarms. Gross but could be worse.

Boney and ribby, well. That’s to be expected.

Zuko finds the secured end of a bandage and carefully begins to unwrap it, and realizes immediately why Uncle wouldn’t have wanted to talk to him about it.

Zuko is a mess of bruises and viper-rat bites underneath the gauze. He doesn’t remember getting bitten very much but the bites are deep and ugly and red around the edges with infection, even though Zuko can smell the sharp, astringent smell of medicinal ointment. The bites are less shocking than the clear marks of hands curling around his upper arms and when he turns around to look at his shoulders, there’re scrapes and bruises all down his back.

Those, Zuko does remember, even though he sort of wishes that he doesn’t. He remembers, even through the fever haze brought on from infection and lack of wound treatment, the feeling of being dropped to the floor and held there no matter how hard he fought, until he didn’t fight at all.

Zuko’s stomach twists and threatens to throw back everything he’s put into it, and he swallows hard to stave off the need to vomit.

The eggs and rice was the best thing he’d eaten in a long time; he is _not_ letting this bullshit ruin that for him. Zuko hangs out on the floor with his head tucked into the toilet until his insides quiet down and he’s sure that he’s not going to throw his guts up. The need for a shower is stronger than it was when he first came in.

The boilers for the hot water aren’t running but that’s fine. Zuko’s not sure how his bending is going to go but, worse comes to worst, he’s not going to complain about a cold shower. Water means being clean—really clean. Not that Zuko doesn’t appreciate that at some point, _someone_ had sponged him down with a wet rag and gotten most of the dirt and grime off of him. 

He simultaneously wants to know who it was so that he can thank them but also never, ever wants to know. Just because his crew have known him long enough to see him staggering around with no depth perception and banging into walls sure as shit does _not_ mean that he wants to know who drew the short straw to give him a sponge bath.

Zuko never, ever wants to know.

It takes more effort than Zuko anticipates to strip down and drag himself into the shower, and even though the water feels frigid in his skin, he’s not mad at it. It took enough out of him just getting in that he knows that trying to bend the water warmer is a _really_ bad idea, and accepts that he’ll have to bathe in the daytime or get stronger before he’ll get any hot water. Hanging off the metal rod attached to the wall is a line of clean rags for washing. 

Zuko forgot to bring soap for his hair and body but right now the water and scrubbing is enough.

Maybe if he scrubs hard enough, the marks pressed into his skin will disappear. Maybe if he scrubs hard enough...

That’s a dangerous line of thought and Zuko cuts it before it goes too far. His body doesn’t want to stay upright, and he lets himself sink to the floor, huddled by the drain under the spray. It’s loud and cold and kind of awful in a way that’s almost satisfying. It’s uncomfortable and unpleasant, but it’s something that Zuko _chose_. 

For himself.

Zuko scrapes too hard over a viper-rat bite on his wrist and it starts bleeding, thick and sluggish.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he says quietly and with feeling. “Fuck.”

He holds his wrist in the water and watches red spatter the tiles. It’s a small wound but it bleeds more than Zuko expects. He zones out a little to the tune of _drip-drip-drip._

“Sir?”

Zuko jerks and scrambles to his feet, only to slip on wet tile and wobble back down to the floor with a profanity-filled crash. The water might be cold but he feels very suddenly lightheaded. The curtain gets thrown open, and Zuko recoils against the sight of a large, imposing figure suddenly looming over him.

Jee puts his hands up and looks Zuko in the eyes and not at his bruises.

“Are you alright, sir?” 

He looks like he wants to take a step forward but doesn’t want to cross any lines. Zuko appreciates it and tries aiming for upright again, but all of his oomf has drained out of him like the water out of the shower, and his legs wobble like a baby kitten-owlet. He nearly goes down again, except that Jee chooses this moment to step forward and wrap his hands around Zuko’s biceps, hauling him easily to his feet.

“I’ve got you,” he rumbles, “Where’s your—“

Zuko gestures weakly in the direction of his red bathing robe folded over one of the sinks, and gratefully shrugs himself into it when it’s handed his way. It’s not the exposure that bothers him—three years on a boat with the same people guarantees that at some point, _someone’s_ getting an eyeful they didn’t ask for one way or another, but Zuko doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t want to see sympathy every time somebody eyeballs his ribs or his messed up body or the dark smudges under his eyes from lack of sleep. 

Zuko’s got no illusions about his body: he looks like _shit._

“It’s freezing in here,” Jee says and drops a towel into Zuko’s wet head, gives it a brisk scrub even as Zuko protests and tries half heartedly to bat him away. It’s all mostly for show. He doesn’t mind that much, not really. “How long were you in there, anyway?”

“Um,” Zuko says. He has the feeling that saying _I don’t know_ is probably not super reassuring, but he doesn’t really have an answer. “A little while, I guess.”

Jee makes an unconvinced snorting noise, and shifts from forcibly drying Zuko’s hair to manhandling him back down the hall to his rooms. Blessedly, it’s late enough that there’s no one to witness his indignity. He may not trust his bending right now but at least his connection to the sun has recovered with minimal effort. It’s late. Hopefully Uncle is sleeping, but Zuko doubts it.

The bandages get left in a soft, damp pile in the showers. 

“You need to air out anyway.”

“At one point, I swear that you at least _pretended_ to respect me,” Zuko grumbles uncharitably under his breath, but doesn’t protest the steady hand under his arm that’s lending more than a bit of strength to keeping him on his feet.

“I respect you plenty, sir, but you don’t sign my paychecks.”

Zuko can’t keep back the crackle of laughter that tears its way out of him without warning, and it’s startling enough that he goes very abruptly silent. He hasn’t had much to laugh about, lately, and almost immediately Zuko’s mirth is replaced by a hot, hard stone in the back of his throat.

It wasn’t like he’d thought about it much, but he hadn’t realized that he’d still known how to laugh. 

Jee looks as startled as Zuko feels but, mercifully, doesn’t call him out on it.

Zuko’s bed, when he’s poured back into it, is the most comfortable thing he’s ever felt. It’s not the softest thing in the world but it’s familiar and it’s _his,_ as is the soft, clumsily knit blanket that tops it. It’s been washed enough times that even the more bristly fibers of bison overcoat that had gotten mixed in with the softer layer underneath are easy on the skin and don’t so much as tickle.

Jee sticks around long enough to make sure that Zuko’s back in bed where he belongs, and then turns to leave.

“Sorry for—“ Zuko blurts out and then cuts himself off. The man stops dead and turns around. The look on his face is strange and hard to decipher. “I mean. You know. For…”

“You have nothing to apologize for, sir.”

Zuko’s not a prince anymore—he doesn’t know how to be, barely knows how to be a person sometimes, but nevertheless, Jee drops immediately into a bow, bending at the waist and his hands forming the flame in front of him. Zuko’s eyes burn, and he scrubs a hand over them for a little extra insurance against tears. They don’t come but it’s a close call. 

His heart quakes.

Zuko doesn’t remember a whole lot from his rescue on the day of the eclipse, but he remembers dark tunnels under the city, remembers looking up from the shoulder of someone he swore was a hallucination to see the people he most desperately missed. He remembers thinking that, at least if it couldn’t have been real, that at least it had been gentle. How much they’d all risked, coming after him like he _meant something_. And not only that.

When Zuko had been newly banished, he’d been more worried about a mutiny than anything else. Even with Uncle to keep everyone in line (because Zuko wasn’t _stupid—_ he may have technically been in charge but everyone knew who the biggest dragon on the ship was), no one could have been happy with the crappy assignment that they’d gotten. Even with Uncle, Zuko had spent more than one night awake and panicked, certain that someone was going to try and take him out—if not for personal gain then for his treachery.

It was unpatriotic and disloyal to refuse orders given by your betters, and Zuko had refused them. They would have been _allowed._ Fire Nation law was clear.

And yet the knife in the dark had never come, and over time Zuko had allowed himself to trust them, with the care and maintenance of the bison and the island if not necessarily with himself.

That too, he finds, has changed. It had changed long before he’d had to be pulled out from underneath the keep.

“If you have to say something unnecessary,” the man continues like he can read Zuko’s tremulous, dangerously sentimental thoughts, gruff but not mean, “Say thank you instead.”

Zuko has a real reason to wipe his eyes this time.

“Thank you,” he croaks. “Thank you for your service.”

Jee doesn’t smile. He’s not really a smiley sort of guy, which is why Uncle has never tried to make him deal with customers—for which Zuko has always been incredibly envious. But his face softens, and Zuko wonders how long it’s been that he hasn’t needed words to understand his crew.

“Get some sleep, sir. You look like shit.”

This time when Zuko laughs, it doesn’t hurt, and when he rolls over to tug his blanket around himself like a piece of nori around rice and fish, he doesn’t even protest to his door being left ajar.

* * *

The sun creeping up over the horizon—not the light that comes with it but the sheer elation of really being able to _feel_ it, is what wakes Zuko the next day.

What Zuko hadn’t realized the day before, primarily because he was running on fumes and also because his brain was still filled with seawater when he woke up, is that they’re _docked._ The realization is instantaneous and so instinctual that he doesn’t actually have to think about it, and what makes him think about it is the fact that he...didn’t have to think about it. Three years with this ship, and Zuko’s more familiar with it than he is on dry land sometimes.

He can’t resist taking a few minutes to just exist with his eyes shut. It’s nice to just rock and hear the gentle slap of water up the Jasmine Dragon’s metal sides, the roll that initially made some customer’s stomachs turn over that makes Zuko feel calm, instead. It’s just one more way to be the family disappointment, but it feels _so good_ on his spirit that the spike of shame-guilt-fear never comes.

They can’t be docked for business. There’s no clatter or chatter of customers, no familiar smell of house-dried leaves and tea sweets.

Zuko sits up.

Food is still a touchy subject, but he thinks he’s hungry, but even that takes a backseat to getting some more answers, now that he’s coherent enough to get them. He got the bare bones story from Uncle yesterday, but he knows that it’s a far gentler one than what actually happened. Zuko’s not entirely sure that he’s _ready_ to hear what actually happened, but he needs it anyway.

Every single thought flies out of Zuko’s head when he peers out the window and realizes exactly where they’re docked. Familiar trees speckle a familiar shoreline, and if he squints he can just see the tops of watchtowers popping up through the canopy. For the first time in what feels like forever, Zuko’s heart races from something that isn’t fear.

Zuko forgets entirely about his grim need to know every awful, gritty detail _and_ his body’s thoughts about breakfast and focuses instead on the shore. He’s still nowhere near as strong as he’d like to be, but they’re docked really, _really_ close. 

He could swim farther than that when he was five, and despite knowing full well that literally no one would approve of what he’s doing, Zuko doesn’t hesitate in slipping off the deck and into the calm, cool water below. It’s a shock to his body but it feels _so good_ , and Zuko spends long minutes paddling aimlessly instead of heading for shore.

He makes it there eventually, relishes every second that he’s able to dig his bare toes into wet sand. Zuko might regret not at least grabbing a pair of sandals before he tossed himself overboard, but that's a problem for future Zuko. Current Zuko is perfectly content with harassing the coquina-crabs and letting the sun warm his shoulders. 

It’s not hard to dodge the watch towers, but it is hard to keep from scaling a ladder or two and either hugging or scolding whoever was on watch. Just because he’s not grateful for the rescue doesn’t mean that he wants people— _his people_ , the only people Zuko’s got, risking their skins for him.

He’s not worth it.

So focused Zuko is on his goals that he doesn’t realize when he begins to tire.

It creeps up on him—one moment he’s fine, if still a bit weak, and the next he’s left with all the shaking strength of a newly hatched koala-pigeon. Frustrated, Zuko lets himself sink to the ground, tries to settle his trembling limbs.

It’s possible, and not for the first time, that he’s overdone it.

“Sir, _really_?”

A shadow blocks out Zuko’s sun and he flinches without thinking about it. He doesn’t want to be loomed over on a good day but especially when he can’t defend himself. Like this, he doesn’t think that he could even throw a single spark. The shadow makes a soft noise like it’s been wounded and moves aside to unblock the sunbeam.

Zuko cracks his eyes open and comes face to face with Min, who’s got his arms crossed and already looking thoroughly put out.

“Does the general know you’re here?” he asks, “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know you’re here.”

“Uncle’s not my supervisor.”

“And yet I’m still smart enough that he scares the shit out of me.”

“...Is everyone taking lessons in backsass?” Zuko marvels and manages to accept the hand up that Min offers, injecting just enough strength into his legs that he stays upright. It takes way more effort than it should. “I swear I’ve gotten more lip in the last twenty-four hours than I have in three years.” 

He’s not sure what he says wrong, but Min’s lower lip gives a treacherous wobble even though he grins, as if Zuko’s told a fabulous joke.

“You should have been there for it,” he says, finally. It sounds like it hurts to pull the words out. “It was a very dramatic rescue. Like it sprang right out of a theatre scroll.”

“I’m pretty sure I _was_ there for it,” Zuko grumbles. Incoherent and borderline hysterical, but he thinks it still counts.

Min scrubs at his eyes.

“We were _so fucking worried about you.”_

Zuko goes very still.

Min gives his eyes another furious scrub so that when he meets Zuko’s, they’re dry.

“So forgive us,” he continues, “for wanting to hold onto someone we care for. Sir.”

There’s a noose around Zuko’s throat that pulls hard and tight with every word, and he couldn’t break free if he tried. He doesn’t even want to. When he manages to make words come out of his mouth, his voice sounds hoarse and crackly. “You honor me with your care.”

Luckily, neither of them embarrass themselves further and when Zuko’s finally able to pull his face out of his palms, his eyes are dry.

“Your babies will be happy to see you,” Min comments with a wobbly smile, “They’ve gotten bigger. Do you want to see?”

Zuko does.

* * *

Zuko’s baby bison _have_ gotten bigger.

Omurice and Katsudon are still the littlest of the youngsters but that doesn’t mean much when each one is still the approximate size of a polar bear-dog. To say that Zuko was worried that they wouldn’t remember him is an exaggeration—he’s not _worried,_ okay?—but in the end, it doesn’t matter. The baby bison are thrilled to see him, and Zuko finds himself surrounded on all sides by warm bison demanding love and cuddles.

It’s with a minimum of token resistance that Zuko finds himself inevitably on the ground, slowly being smothered in baby sky bison acting like they haven’t seen him in years. Min cackles at him and doesn’t make any attempt to help, leaving entirely with a backwards wave.

Zuko gives up and flops backwards, trusting that at least one of his overexcitable, codependent babies will be at his back. He’s right—and Zuko lands against a solid wall of warm fluff that rumbles at him and noses at his hair. He’s ensconced in warmth in a way that bed just can’t replicate, and for a good chunk of time all Zuko knows how to do is breathe.

He never thought he’d be warm again. He never thought he’d see his bison again, see his uncle again, see his crew again.

For a long while, Zuko closes his eyes and focuses hard on the in-out process of breathing.

Despite the warm calm and the knowledge that he’s out of the darkness of the dungeons, Zuko still has to convince himself that it’s real. He still has to remind himself that he’s here, for real, and that he’s not going to blink and then suddenly be back in the darkness. Omurice is nibbling contentedly on the ends of his bangs. Min may have made himself scarce but he definitely hasn’t gone too far. Jee is still on board the _Jasmine Dragon._

The world smells like grass and hay and some flowering trees somewhere beyond the scope of Zuko’s vision. The world is _warm_ and bright and full of green things, and Zuko is not down there in the cold and dark anymore.

Even with all his internal convincing, it’s still a bit hard to believe.

He doesn’t know how long he stays curled up with his babies. Maybe he naps, just a bit? At any rate, the world fogs and slows down to a low, comforting hum. Zuko lets himself float—not the way that he used to do when it all got to be too much and his brain would shut itself down—but in a way that feels safe and good.

Zuko floats—

Until he hears voices.

Not _close_ but still close enough to be in earshot. They’re familiar, too, and Zuko recognizes his uncle’s in the mix, and that’s what eventually gets him on his feet. He leaves the bison youngsters and follows the sound, which leads him to an unfamiliar meadow that’s been encircled with stone fences and smoothed out with dirt. It’s too perfect to be done by hand.

The Avatar is in the middle of the field and running through cold katas with Uncle Iroh. His friends are farther along the edge of the fence to watch...to supervise? Zuko’s not sure.

They’re beginner movements and perfectly appropriate for someone just beginning to learn. Zuko stays out of sight but close enough to watch and listen. He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of any of them since he was captured in Ba Sing Se, and it’s a relief to see everyone accounted for. Especially Toph, sitting in the dirt and idly bending dirt castles out of it and Aang, who’d been near death the last time that Zuko saw him.

Zuko’s spent so long wanting nothing to do with the Avatar or his group but now that he’s here, he’s glad to see them.

Aang’s form is good. Uncle agrees, because he says something that Zuko’s too far away to properly hear, and then flames are wrapping around his hands, and—

The Avatar flinches.

Not just a little, not just a hesitation, but full on flinches away from Uncle’s fire as if it’s already burned him. Which is patently ridiculous; Uncle Iroh has better control than anyone Zuko knows and would _never_ burn anyone he didn’t want to. He certainly would never lay flame to a twelve year old. Aang doesn’t look like _he_ knows that, though, because he falls out of form and skitters backwards.

Uncle doesn’t look surprised. Like, at all. He says something and looks very patient about it, but it doesn’t seem to help.

Zuko gets it. 

He remembers how long he spent being afraid of his own fire and anyone else’s too, and how hard it was for anyone to really help. Uncle is kind and patient and a very good teacher, but he will never truly know what it’s like to be afraid of fire because it’s never really hurt him. Zuko, on the other hand, knows all too well.

Zuko finds himself striding forward, revealing himself with large, noisy steps.

“Sparky!!” Toph screeches at the top of her lungs and throws herself at him, wraps her arms around his middle and squeezing so tightly that for a moment Zuko loses all of his breath. “You’re okay?”

Zuko is not okay. Zuko is a barely held together wreck of a person, but he’s certainly not going to say that right now. So instead he just leans down and circles his arms around Toph’s shoulders and squeezes her back, less hard.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, very quietly, then pulls his nose out of her mess of dark hair. “Uncle, you know that that’s not going to work.”

Someone else might be offended or put upon to be told their business about their teaching methods, but not Uncle. He doesn’t get upset but looks considering instead.

“What would you have me do, nephew?”

Zuko suddenly feels thirteen again and terrified, and he hears Uncle’s question not as it sounds but as it is. _What should I have done for you?_

The situation is different, though.

What Aang needs to feel safe aren’t the same things that Zuko needed, back then. He swallows hard, his mouth sawdust dry. Aang’s staring at him, too. They all are.

“It’s different,” Zuko says finally, “When you’re already afraid. Forcing yourself to do it when you’re scared is never going to work.” He detaches himself from Toph’s grip and takes another step closer. The sun is warm on his skin and he’s never felt closer to Agni than he does in this moment. “I think that I can help.”

* * *


End file.
